


Whispering sweetness, which once coursed through us

by lafiametta



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Commander Little, Lieutenant Jopson, M/M, Prompt Fill, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 14:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17830658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/pseuds/lafiametta
Summary: “You are offering to help me shave?”Jopson offered him an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, but a mischievous smile was forming on his lips, one Edward knew far too well. “I have a practiced hand,” he said, “if I do not flatter myself overmuch. And I did as well for Captain Crozier so many times that by the end I daresay I might have attempted it blindfolded.”





	Whispering sweetness, which once coursed through us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onstraysod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/gifts).



> onstraysod sent me this Jopson/Little prompt: "If you’re still taking Lopson prompts, may I ask for Jopson shaving Little?"
> 
> To further explain, this is also a sequel to [my Little-sees-Jopson-in-his-lieutenant's-dress-uniform-at-the-Admiralty-reception story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17607935). The title, as always, comes from Rainer Maria Rilke.

They were two days out from port, with a fine wind in their sails, and Edward could not help but feel a spirit of lightness about himself as well, a buoyancy that he ascribed to being once more surrounded by open waters.

The _Thetis_ was a fair vessel, a fifth-rate frigate built only two years earlier, and much of her crew consisted of fresh recruits who still appeared a touch untested at their posts. His reputation as a surviving officer of the Arctic expedition had naturally preceded him, and if there were a handful of ship’s boys who continued to quietly whisper among themselves each time he strode by, there was little he could do besides wait until their fascination wore off. In time, he knew, whatever tragic glamour the expedition still held in the public imagination would fade, and he would at last return to the comfort of relative anonymity, merely another officer in Her Majesty’s navy.

He had woken that morning before the sunrise, washed and dressed, and then set about putting his bunk in order. At half-past six, just as Edward had deposited his scuttle and brush onto the desk, Mr. Peters knocked with jug of hot water, leaving it in exchange for an armful of Edward’s unclean linens. But before the steward could depart, Edward stopped him, hoping to task him with a small errand.

“Once he’s dressed, ask Lieutenant Jopson to come by, will you? I have a matter I wish to discuss with him before breakfast.”

“Of course, sir,” the steward replied with polite efficiency.

Peters was clearly a man not given to delay, for within a few minutes came a soft knuckled rap against the door, a negligible sound that nevertheless brought Edward’s heart up into the vicinity of his throat.

The sensation only seemed to intensify once the door slid open to reveal the form of Thomas Jopson – _Lieutenant_ Jopson, Edward once again reminded himself – who with his deeply parted hair and fresh-washed face looked far more fetching than any man had a right to be so early in the morning. He took a tentative step into the cabin, a wary cast about his gaze, even as his cheeks began to color with the tenderest of pinks.

“You wished to see me?” Jopson asked, as he pulled the door closed behind him.

Edward nodded, pressing his lips together before they could curl into an unprompted smile. “I did… I do,” he began, and then cleared his throat in an attempt to bring some order to the chaotic muddle of his thoughts. “I meant only to inquire as to how you were settling in, with all your new duties and responsibilities. Although from what I’ve observed,” he added, “you appear to be taking to the role quite naturally.”

Jopson blushed a shade brighter at the compliment, even though it was well-deserved. Edward had watched him with the men, seen how easily they acquiesced to his orders, how he drew them towards him with his encouragement and generous nature. It had been different on _Terror_ ; as a steward, he had always been a degree removed from the others, among their company but never truly of their number. But here, even as an officer, he seemed to have found an unexpected camaraderie, and a pride in being a leader of men that now looked to him for guidance and direction.

It still seemed strange at times, hearing Jopson’s voice raised sharply in command, seeing him seated across the table at the officers’ mess rather than serving at it. And Edward knew there were some among the officers who privately grumbled at having a man of such undistinguished origins sitting in their midst, but they seemed to have sense enough not to say such things in front of him. In time, he was certain, they would come to see – as he had – the new lieutenant’s fundamental worth, and their prejudice would soon evaporate.

“Thank you, sir,” Jopson replied, his shoulders easing slightly loose from their rigidly-held frame. “It has been an adjustment, in many ways. As you know, I’ve had no formal training and many of my abilities – particularly in computations and navigation – are in need of much improvement. I hope the men do not find me wanting in that regard.”

“You should have no fear of that, I think.” Edward let the corner of his mouth round into a playful curl. “I wager they love you all the more for it.”

Jopson smiled bashfully, his sea-colored eyes warm with pleasure, a sight that set Edward’s heart alight for all that he had despaired of ever seeing it again.

“I have been fortunate in having good examples to follow,” Jopson added. “Yourself, of course, and Lieutenant Irving…”

His voice trailed off, and it was not hard to guess the direction of his thoughts. Memories were all they had now of Irving, and Gore and Fairholme, and all the others who remained there in that unforgiving land, buried under a weight of ice and stones. Yet there was some comfort to be had in remembering Irving not in the terrible manner of his death, but in his life, in the calm and measured order he had brought to all he surveyed, in the unswerving loyalty he had kept, in the faith that had guided his steps each day. Of _Terror_ ’s second lieutenant, however, Edward was glad to hear no mention; for all he knew, Hodgson still lived, keeping company with murderers and mutineers, or else dead these many months, his bones bleaching on the shale. But it would not do to think of him, not when there were others far more deserving of their considerations.

“Irving would have been proud to see you here, dressed in that uniform,” Edward offered. “I’m sure of it.” He glanced downwards, feeling his own cheeks beginning to grow warm. “As for myself, I would not have you hold me up as a paragon of anything at all, not in light of all my obvious deficiencies.”

“What deficiencies? I saw none, and I was in as good a place as any to bear witness to them.”

“Thomas…” Edward narrowed his gaze in wry disbelief. “You and I both know I was not always entirely attentive to my duties.”

He did not need to say more, for just the thought of all those days and nights on _Terror_ conjured up a host of indelible images, each more powerful than the last. The morning he had nearly fallen asleep during a command meeting, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, owing to the mere hour’s rest he had gotten just before dawn, after Jopson had finally slipped out of his cabin. The daily inspections he had not given his full attention to, barely going through the motions, his mind instead occupied by thoughts of a soft and willing mouth, a pair of pale eyes whose pupils had turned dark with need. The hours he had sat at his logbook, wishing only to fill its pages with the raptures of his heart rather than some tedious description of the weather or the state of the ice. And yet were he to be given the choice once more – between thinking only of his duties as an officer or finding comfort and release in the sweetness of Thomas’s arms – he knew he would not hesitate to follow the exact same path.  

“Regardless,” Edward said, taking an unsteady breath as he brought himself back to the present, “I hope you feel that you have made the right decision in taking on the lieutenant’s position, that you have not in any way come to regret it.”

Jopson shook his head softly. “No, not in the slightest.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Edward answered, his mouth ticking up into tiny smile.

They both were silent for a moment, the air in Edward’s small cabin somehow growing warmer and heavier the longer they stood. They were no longer in the Arctic, shivering in their greatcoats, their breath crystalizing the moment it escaped their lips; here, the Channel shimmered under a summer sun, calm but for a mellow breeze, and Edward himself was dressed only to his waistcoat, a fact that he was becoming increasingly more aware of.

He felt his heart beating a touch faster, even as he urged it to caution.

It was Jopson, though, who broke the spell, dropping his gaze down to the ground and then flicking it back to the door, as if in realization that there was still a world beyond the two of them, simply waiting for them to join in the day.

“I should leave you to the rest of your morning preparations,” he said, nodding in the direction of the porcelain jug on Edward’s desk, “at least before your water turns cold.” A curious glint shone in his eyes. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Edward asked in partial confusion.

“Unless you would care for some assistance in them.”

Edward stilled, with the exception of his eyebrows, which he felt furrow closer together. “You are offering to help me shave?”

Jopson offered him an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, but a mischievous smile was forming on his lips, one Edward knew far too well. “I have a practiced hand,” he said, “if I do not flatter myself overmuch. And I did as well for Captain Crozier so many times that by the end I daresay I might have attempted it blindfolded.”

Edward nearly laughed for the joy of it, for here was the Jopson he knew, the one he had lost, and who had somehow, through the gift of some beneficent deity, been returned to him. And if at that moment he dared to imagine that the sentiments that remained unaltered in his own breast had through some miracle been rekindled within Jopson’s own, it did not seem quite as far-fetched as he might once have believed.

“Well, then... I would be foolish to refuse such an offer.” He gestured to the accoutrements scattered on the desk. “By all means, please proceed.”

“Here,” Jopson said, as he pulled the cabin’s single chair out onto the floor. “Sit.”

Edward followed his instructions, and then watched as Jopson methodically prepared the scuttle, pouring hot water into the bottom bowl and letting the brush soak, before locating the razor and laying out a clean square of cloth just beside it. He added a sliver of soap into the top of the scuttle and then began to use the brush to work up a rich lather, stopping to eye it periodically until he deemed it satisfactory.  

His attention then turned to Edward as he pulled the collar back from the sides of his neck and wet his face with some of the remaining hot water. Taking the scuttle in hand, he passed the brush over Edward’s cheeks and chin, and tilted his head back in order to reach his neck and the underside of his jaw. The lather was warm as it touched his skin, the gentle motion of the brush soothing, and he could not help but take some pleasure in each glancing touch of Jopson’s fingertips as they positioned him this way and then that.

“Do you wish to keep these whiskers?” Jopson asked as he set the scuttle down and reached for the razor, pulling the blade back from its wooden handle.

“Do you not like them?” Edward replied, as best as he could with his mouth nearly covered by soapy lather.

“They suit you well, I think.” Jopson eyed him narrowly, as if trying to determine where he might begin. “Although I would not be opposed to seeing you with a full beard again. It made you look rather distinguished.”

Edward could recall the last time he had worn a beard: it had been those few final weeks before their rescue, when there had been no thought for anything beyond their own survival, much less for shaving. By that point, he and Jopson had grown so far apart that it seemed impossible to imagine that the other man had found anything worth admiring in Edward. In the end, he had shaved the thing off the first chance he had gotten, wanting to rid himself entirely of that godforsaken place and the man he had become there.

“In the winter, possibly, I might grow it longer,” he offered, “if you think it would flatter. But let the whiskers remain for now.”

Jopson said nothing, making only a small sound of satisfaction, and then circled around Edward, laying the clean cloth over his shoulder and tipping his chin up to expose the line of his throat. Edward swallowed tightly as his eyes caught sight of the blade moving towards him, steel glinting in the light, and then he gave himself over to Jopson’s expert hands.  

The blade moved efficiently over his neck and jaw, a series of broad strokes that brought just the barest tug of pressure against his skin. There was no hesitation in Jopson’s movements, only the action of a steady and confident hand, and he paused just long enough to wipe the accumulated lather along the cloth at Edward’s shoulder before returning once more to his task. As he worked, he leaned further and further over Edward’s upturned face, close enough that Edward could breathe in the scent of him, something warm and clean and achingly familiar. It was all he could do not to close his eyes and inhale deeply, and for a moment imagine himself back in his narrow bunk aboard _Terror_ , his face pressed tight in desperation along the curve of Jopson’s neck.

As Jopson reached the underside of his jaw, Edward could feel the gentle pressure of a thumb and several fingers pulling his skin taut; were they to move any higher, he realized, there would be no mistaking the wild rhythm beginning to take flight within his pulse. He prayed it might go unnoticed, or, if he were not so fortunate, that Jopson would have the good grace to say nothing that might call further attention to it.

Edward breathed a small sigh of relief when the razor made its final stroke upon his jaw and the fingertips lifted from his skin.

And yet what followed somehow managed to bring even greater torment, for Jopson’s attentions were now focused entirely on his face – his cheeks, his chin, the span of his upper lip – and it was impossible not to recede into a reverie of memory, recalling all the times the former steward had caressed each part, but with hands and mouth rather than the edge of a blade. He could feel his head begin to spin with desire – both past and present – and the rest of his body following suit in a way that he could not control. And to be the object of such focused scrutiny, to have those pale and startling eyes trained entirely on him, as if there was nothing else worth looking at? He had no idea how Crozier had been able to bear it all those years, at least without falling into paroxysms of unbridled lust.

Jopson edged closer, coming to stand nearly between Edward’s knees, his hand pulling the blade in a long diagonal against his cheek. A thumb nestled in his whiskers, a warm palm along his neck, steadying him in place. Jopson moved painstakingly over each square inch, taking special care around the curve of Edward’s mouth, the tiny cleft of his chin, the delicate skin just above his lip. And with every stroke, Edward could feel his breath turn tighter, catching in his throat and in the space between his ribs, his desire growing increasingly more evident against his thigh.

He needed it to stop. He needed it to go on forever.

Jopson had just turned the blade over the edge of his chin when Edward felt a sharp sting and instantly jerked back in response. Jopson’s eyes grew wide, and from his lips he drew a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, as he continued to stare at a spot somewhere along Edward’s chin. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean…” He glanced around distractedly, without finding what he was looking for, before finally searching within the front pocket of his coat and extracting a pristinely-folded handkerchief. He kneeled down and pressed the fabric firmly against Edward’s chin, his other hand flat against the front of Edward’s waistcoat.

“I was trying so hard to be careful,” he said, his dark brows narrowing with worry. “I don’t know what happened. Perhaps it has been too long since—”

“ _Thomas_ ,” Edward murmured, as he reached up to clasp his hand tightly around the other man’s wrist. That, at least, seemed to get his attention, and his eyes flashed up to meet Edward’s gaze. “I’m alright,” he added. “It’s just a nick.”

Jopson nodded, but then pulled the handkerchief away from Edward’s face, as if requiring some proof of his assertion. There was a little blood, bright crimson flowering against that expanse of white, but not enough to be any true cause for concern. Edward had cut himself far worse than that more times than he could count; he would wear it as a badge for a few days and then it would be gone, as if it had never happened.

What might have been cause for concern, however, was the realization of how close they now were, with Jopson kneeling just between Edward’s thighs, palm still resting against his chest, and Edward’s hand circling around Jopson’s other wrist, keeping him from pulling away. Their faces were nearly level, separated by a mere foot or so, which, considering all the distance that had once lay between them, seemed to Edward altogether negligible.

“Thomas,” he said again, this time even more quietly, as if only to remind the man across from him who he had once been and the place he had occupied in Edward’s heart.

Jopson did not answer, but reached his hand up to gently clasp the side of Edward’s face, letting his thumb graze against the edge of his cheekbone. Traces of lather still remained at the edge of his whiskers, immediately smearing across Jopson’s open palm, and all at once he laughed, a bright, beatific smile forming along his lovely mouth.

Edward did not dare to breathe – because he did not dare to hope – and yet there was something in Jopson’s brilliant gaze that made both seem possible.

And in that space, time somehow lost all meaning; it could only be measured in breaths and heartbeats, in the few moments it took to erase the distance between them, in the span of a kiss or a sigh or a few words whispered in forgiveness and joy.


End file.
